Bolivia capital Suc-re Largest city in South America
Mexico is Mexico Government Republican

Around the world and back again, nor did they stop until they again went through all the States, finishing with a lusty:

New Hampshire’s capital is for a fact Concord on the Merrimac.

Silence came at last.

Taking from the stand the songbook, Philomel placed a hand behind him and announced with quiet decorum, “Those who have brought their notebooks will please open them up to page—” he faltered, fumbling the leaves of his book. “Open to page—” still groping was Philomel Whiffet and squinting at the faded pages. “Those who have not brought their notebooks can look on with someone else.” Trying to act unconcerned was the singing master. “Turn to one—of our—old favorites,” poor old Whiffet murmured, still fumbling the pages of the book. “My eyes—are dim”—he mumbled in confusion—“I—cannot see.” Vainly he searched his vest pockets, the pockets of his coat. “—I’ve left my specs at home,” he blurted in desperation.

With that the tantalizing Drusilla Osborn, from her bench at the back of the room, nudged the girl beside her and, pointing to the staff of music left on the wall where Philomel had placed it,—Dru began to hum. “You’ve pitched it too shaller,” whispered the other girl, and quickly Dru hummed a lower register until her companion caught the pitch; then the two sang loud and shrill:

My eyes are dim, I cannot see, My specs I left at home.

And before Philomel Whiffet knew what had happened, sopranos, altos, and bass had taken up the tune. Even Jonathan Witchcott, for all he sat on the very front bench where anybody could see with half an eye that the singing master was plagued and shamefaced, let out his booming bass with all his might and main. Hadn’t Drusilla pitched the tune? What else was the doting Jonathan to do? The two had been courting full six months, just to spite Mathias Oneby if for no other reason. And Mathias, the patient and meek fellow, sitting in the far corner of the very last bench straight across from the adored Drusilla, sitting where anyone could see that Dru was playing a prank, when he heard the mighty boom of his rival, joined in with his high tenor:

My eyes are dim, I cannot see, My specs I left at home.

Louder and stronger roared Jonathan’s bass. And Mathias, not to be excelled, raised his shrill notes higher still, sweeping the sopranos along with him.